


Famiglia

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [16]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Author Is Still Sleep Deprived, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s03e07 Acceptable Risk, Hostage Situations, Hurt Spike, Major Character Injury, Movie Night, Other, Poor Spike, Puppy Piles, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Shooting, Spike Whump, Team Bonding, Verbal Abuse, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4323180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike knew the cameras were watching them—the red dot eerily glowing in the corner of the room as the lens honed in on table, but there would be no sounds—the microphone had been broken for the last few days and they hadn’t had time to fix it. The bomb tech watched as the well-built man set up a microphone and pulled out a file—by the basic text on it, Spike made a good bet that it was the transcript.<br/>“Does your sergeant have faith in your abilities in the field, Officer Scarlatti?” The investigator asked suddenly, and Spike was thrown for a loop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famiglia

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, darling readers. Whether that is a good thing or not is to be seen. I'm running out of things to write--this is tragic... I need to slow down XD (or start begging for prompts, we'll see how it goes...)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, because that means I have done my job right.  
> Please, please, please leave feedback, because it keeps me motivated to write (and thank you so much for everyone who has left comments and kudos!) and it makes me happy and we've already had this conversation. Have an awesome day. :)
> 
> (Also, the title is supposed to say "Family" in Italian, but here's the problem--I don't speak Italian *sobs*. So I apologize if I've managed to butcher the language.)
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint nor the characters. I used a specific episode--"Acceptable Risk"--for this work of FanFiction so please let it be known that I own nothing from that episode--dialogue, specific scenes, ect. I also make no profit from my writing. Thank you.

Silent and still, the Barn stood like a gravestone in the chilly Toronto skyline as press stormed outside asking for answers. Standing in a line, Team One didn’t speak or let their exhaustion or aggravation show. Sam was scrubbing his hands together, trying to get the blood out from under his fingernails, and Jules bumped her hip into his in an attempt at comfort. Greg was watching his team—charting every detail and memorizing every slump of their shoulders—while Ed examined the sergeant. Their gazes crossed, and they both looked away slowly.

Spike had his arms crossed over his chest loosely, and looked down when he felt Lou’s boot lightly tap his own. Looking up, the brunette smiled at his friend and let his arms fall free so they swung gently by his side. Lou didn’t move his foot, shifting his weight so he could stand a little closer to Spike, as they waited patiently. Wordy look anxious, and they all knew he just wanted to go home and hold his girls and forget the sights they’d encounter this night.

The Special Investigations Unit was due here any second, and none of them were looking forward to the hours of interviews. The whole evening felt like a front of mourning clouds rolling in with the rain, making everything dimmer and heated.

“I just want to go take a shower and go to bed,” Sam whispered from down the line, and Spike shared the aspiration but he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

They all fell silent when a man strode in, head held high and shoulders squared, with an SIU badge clinging to his button-down shirt. His eyes compartmentalized every inch of them, and his gaze was as neat and common as his suit.

“You will not talk to each other until the interviews are over,” He ordered, and turned to Winnie, “Is briefing room 1 open as requested?”

The woman nodded, fatigue slipping into her expression, and the man turned back to Team One.

“I’ll start with Officer Scarlatti,” he said dully, and the team turned to each other—confused.

“I’m the subject officer,” Ed spoke up, eyeing the badge, “Mr.—,”

The SIU man cut him off, “Mr. Johnson, Officer Lane. I’m aware, but I said I will start with Officer Scarlatti.”

Spike stepped forward; he wasn’t sure of the reason why he was being called over first but he accepted it mutely. Mr. Johnson walked towards the briefing room, and the bomb tech followed just a few steps behind. There were only two chairs set up at the long table, and Spike took one—catching his team’s looks, ranging from angry—Ed, Sam—to worried—Greg, Lou, Wordy—to calculating—Jules, Winnie. The investigator clicked the keypad by the door, and the windows faded into a dark opaque sheet as the metal door slipped down from the ceiling and rested a mere inch from the ground.

Spike knew the cameras were watching them—the red dot eerily glowing in the corner of the room as the lens honed in on table, but there would be no sounds—the microphone had been broken for the last few days and they hadn’t had time to fix it. The bomb tech watched as the well-built man set up a microphone and pulled out a file—by the basic text on it, Spike made a good bet that it was the transcript.

“Does your sergeant have faith in your abilities in the field, Officer Scarlatti?” The investigator asked suddenly, and Spike was thrown for a loop.

“Yes, sir, he does. If he thought I wasn’t capable of doing this job, then I wouldn’t be on the team.” Spike replied honestly, resting his hands on the table. There wasn’t doubt in his voice; because what he said was true but there were reservations in his mind—ghosts he couldn’t shake.

“Then why did he order you to stay in the truck when Officer Lane wanted you in the field—where you would have been of more use?”

The brunette heard the bias in his words, trying to not show his emotions, and he went to retort back but Mr. Johnson cut him off.

“It took 37 minutes to take down the subject, do you think the time could have been reduced—and more lives saved—if you had supported your team in the field?”

“I did support them,” Spike said firmly, catching himself as he went to lean forward, “I’m the most experienced in finding intel and working the technology in the mobile command station. I supported them by doing my job.”

“Is that what they tell you?”

Spike stared at the investigator, eyebrows drawn close as his mind spun like tires on ice—heading for disaster. He didn’t understand the questions, didn’t understand the _purpose_ of the answers that they prompted. The bomb tech couldn’t come up with an answer, but the man grilling him kept careening towards whatever goal he had in mind like a train overconfident from not jumping the rails.

“You cost your team valuable minutes by failing at your _job_ ,” Mr. Johnson sneered, and Spike tried to defend himself but he knew the man was right.

“I hadn’t worked with the 2700 security system,” Spike said adamantly, but there was no excuse.

“Part of your job is to stay caught up on the newest technology. Doesn’t your team count on you to do your job, Officer Scarlatti?” It wasn’t a question that required an answer, and Spike felt his heart sink into his stomach as the words continued—SIU had never been like this, never. “What if you fail again—and one of them ends up dead because they trusted you?”

“I keep up to date on all technology advancements—,”

“Obviously not,” the man laughed, his voice haunting and dead and cold and red flags rose up in Spike’s mind, “You’re the weak link of the team, Spike, you’re physically the feeblest and when you’re given one simple task—open a door—you can’t even complete that. Officer Lane had to step in and do your job for you. Do you think Team One would be more effective if you were removed and replaced by someone who could properly support the other SRU officers?”

“No,” Spike whispered, but the seed already in his mind was starting to unravel and bloom; the thorns leaking poison straight into his bloodstream.

“So you think you should stay on Team One and place the lives of your fellow officers on the line because you can’t keep up?”

The bomb tech wanted to race out of the room, but his own uncertainty was keeping him firmly in the cold seat.

Spike knew he was the weakest, he couldn’t lift like Ed or Sam or Wordy—he was a runner, all long, soft lines and muscles hiding under his skin. Weak. Easily overpowered. Not cut out for the job he’d earned.

Rationally, Spike knew that he was an important member of the team, but rationality had flown out the window when the comments had started. What if he messed up again, what if he couldn’t solve a code or disarm a bomb or find the information his team needed?

…Would the team really be stronger if he was replaced? Someone not useless, not worthless, not fatally _flawed_ …

The brunette didn’t really pay attention as the investigator stood from his seat and walked around the table—he was too lost in his thoughts, seeing his family strewn out and bleeding and dying and dead because he was a failure. He was a failure. He was a—

A hand jerked him out of his seat, and the two men stumbled away from the table as Spike’s training told him to stay still and his panic told him to thrash. His body stilled; something cold and metal pressed against his head, just above his ear—where his blood was pounding from too many emotions to categorize.

They both spooked when the windows swung open and the metal door lifted away, the code obviously having been overridden. Team One was there along with a good chunk of the overnight team, shields up and guns drawn. Spike could see Winnie leading away a middle aged lady; her blonde hair bouncing and her grey suit perfectly pressed—a member of the SIU. An investigator they’d worked with before. His mind worked in overtime, processing the gun against his skull and the imposter at its trigger.

“How about you put that gun down, Mr. Hallford, and we can talk?” Greg started, standing half behind Ed’s shield—and Spike noted the man’s true name, he’d heard it before because there were only so many other bomb techs in Toronto.

It was the man that had tried out for the SRU at the same time Spike had.

“Now why would I do that, Sergeant Parker?” the man asked, pressing the barrel tighter against Spike’s skin, and the brunette fought back a wince.

“Well, I think it’s hard to think straight when there’s a gun involved and that it would be easier if the guns went down.” Greg tried, but his calmness wasn’t as real as it was during other calls—not when it was Spike’s life on the line.

Everyone there knew that the man wasn’t going to go anywhere—and that he wasn’t going to get anywhere using Spike as a hostage. The man knew it too, and after a moment of hesitation he lowered the gun from Spike’s head.

Then there was the recoil of a gun, and it took Spike a split second to register the agony as the bullet ripped into the flesh of his thigh. A gasp clawed its way up his throat, and he bit back a scream as he collapsed onto the ground—hands flying to cover the wound. Cold metal once again pressed against his head, the barrel still hot. A second shot rang out, and Spike braced for the pain, but there was the sound of a body falling behind him with a heavy thud.

His eyes were squeezed shut, not wanting to look any weaker before his team, and Spike felt the blood slip between his fingers as he held his hands against his leg. He heard the shields fall, clattering the ground, and guns being left next to them, as Team One converged on their wounded member.

“Spike,” Greg gasped, tears in his eyes, and Sam and Ed were busy pressing thick gauze against the wound as blood quickly soaked the fabric. Spike let his torso be drawn against the sergeant’s chest, the Kevlar stiff under his head, and tried to keep his breathing steady as the throbbing rocketed up his leg.

But the shock, the ache and agony, and the sensation of his mind laying in ruins— _failure, put your team in danger, weak weak weak_ —drew itself over him like a thick winter blanket and he slumped against Greg as his eyes slipped shut.

_What if you fail again—and one of them ends up dead because they trusted you?_

 

* * *

 

It took three days to recover from surgery, and Spike just wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed (or Sam’s or Ed’s or Greg’s). He didn’t want to answer questions about why he looked sad, or why he wasn’t being bubbly—no, he wasn’t in pain, he would say over and over again, he was just tired.

So. Damn. Tired.

( _ ~~Tired~~_ ~~of being a failure, _tired_ of being the weak link, _tired_ of believing all this time that he was worth something~~ )

They ended up at Greg’s house, like they usually did—because his lovers weren’t really in the mood for letting Spike go home alone—and the bomb tech eyed the couch like he wasn’t sure he’d make it to the bed before he fell asleep.

Sleepily, Spike made it there but he was almost tempted to let one of the guys carry him—but his mind crashed, some seething voice spitting in his ear that _they already do so much for you, and you have the audacity to ask for more?_ So he took the steps himself, eyes downcast and his mind falling to dangerous, glinting pieces. _You don’t deserve their love, you can’t do anything right. They don’t need you; the team doesn’t need you._

The brunette kissed all three men on the cheek, trying to find some semblance of normality, but he locked the door when he went to shower. Greg, Sam and Ed shared a startled look, but didn’t push the subject. They simply herded Spike into bed when he returned, and cuddled as close as they could—minding the bandage covering a large band of the bomb tech’s thigh.

The two snipers and the negotiator fell asleep fast—they’d gotten no sleep when Spike was in the hospital (and another blow struck his stomach, _you did this, it’s your fault_ ). But Spike… Spike didn’t sleep. He was on the edge of the bed, held in Greg’s arms—their normal sleeping arrangement askew, because Spike was always in the middle like a focal point connecting them all.

It didn’t take much effort to slip out of Greg’s grasp, because he wasn’t nearly as light a sleeper as Sam was, so Spike softly padded out of the bedroom—not daring to close the door behind him because the damn thing squeaked—and to the living room.

Sitting on the couch, Spike curled into himself and pulled a blanket around his frame. Finally, alone at last, he let the tears dribble down his face. But he didn’t make a sound, not wanting to disturb the others, not even a sniffle or a hitched breath. The tears just brushed over his cheeks, blurring his vision, and dropped onto his lap.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but eventually the couch shifted as another body sat next to him. The bomb tech didn’t look up, didn’t try to get rid of the evidence of his fit, he just licked the salt off his lips and tried to fake it.

“Sorry I woke you up,” He tried, “I’ll be back, I just need a minute.”

“Hey,” Ed’s soft voice filtered through his ears, “it’s fine, you didn’t wake me up.”

Spike looked up, ashamed of his tears, and saw the sincerity in the sniper’s blue eyes. One muscular, tanned arm reached out and away from Ed’s body, not touching the brunette but hovering—an invitation for an embrace, if Spike wanted.

Ignoring the part of his mind that shamed him, Spike let himself melt into Ed’s side and let out a shaky breath. The bald man tucked the blanket tighter around the Italian, running a hand over his back soothingly, and shifted so they were as close as possible.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

_No_ , was Spike’s first thought, and it dominated everything but he let words slip from his lips anyway—like Ed’s grip was truth serum.

“I shouldn’t be on Team One,” He started, and Ed tensed but didn’t stop him ( _didn’t **object**_ , his mind jeered), “I couldn’t even do my job right, I failed because I couldn’t get that door open—I didn’t research enough, didn’t keep up with the systems like I’m supposed to,” Spike continued, and the next words were twisted in a venom that wasn’t his, “What if I fail again—and one of you ends up dead because you trusted me?” The brunette trailed off, his voice a hoarse whisper, and tucked his head. “You deserve someone better than me.”

Ed clutched him closer, mind faltering because words weren’t his specialty—if Greg was out here, he’d know exactly what to say, but Ed was a man of action and he had no idea how to make any of this better.

“You belong on Team One,” the sniper tried, voice tight and he could tell Spike wasn’t really listening, “and you’re not a failure, okay? I never want to hear you say that again, Spike. You’re the best technician any of us have worked with—there’s no one better. Now, I heard what that guy was saying, buddy—and it was all lies, okay? He was trying to hurt you, none of it was true.”

Spike nodded, but it was just to get away from the conversation.

“Can we go back to bed?” The brown eyed man asked, toying with the edge of the blanket, “I’m tired.”

“Yeah,” Ed sighed, pulling Spike to his feet, “Let’s go back to bed.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning was a shamble; Ed, Greg and Sam were standing in the kitchen trying to keep their voices down even though the door to the bedroom was shut.

“What that guy said,” Ed scrubbed a hand over his face, “It really got to him. He’s got it all twisted in his mind—he thinks he’s a failure and that being on Team One is only putting us in danger.”

Sam was clutching the countertop so hard the two older lovers feared it would snap to pieces in his grasp, or that his bones would fracture under the pressure. His white knuckles slowly regained their color as he let go of the marble and fisted his hands in his hair as he paced the kitchen.

Greg couldn’t find any words, his brain racing to process the information, as Ed’s shoulders tensed under the fabric of his shirt. Not even the acidic smell of the brewing coffee was waking his mind—frosted over in shock.

There was a knock on the door, and Ed—the most composed—walked over to see who it was.

“Spike still asleep?”

Greg perked up at Jules’ voice, following the path Ed had taken and looking at the people clustered around his door. Winnie slipped in first, packets of popcorn balanced in her arms, and Jules followed behind with DVDs. Wordy and Lou slipped in after them, the latter with blankets and the former with soda.

“Yeah, he had a rough night.” Ed told them in a hushed voice, and they all looked at him with hurt expressions.

The team turned as the bedroom door opened, and Spike walked out in a shirt and boxers—the white of his bandage just visible. The bomb tech stopped, thoughts tangled, and the team smiled at him.

“Come on, buddy!” Wordy grinned, “We’re having a movie day.”

“I brought your favorite!”

Jules was sitting next to the man, movies spread out around her and she held up a case with a huge smile, eyes glittering. In big, bold letters was WALL-E, and Spike wanted to blush and hide but his eyes took another sweep of the room and there was no judgment from any of the men or women.

So, with shaky steps, he had his way over to the couch and found himself pulled onto Greg’s lap—his feet resting on Ed’s lap as a blanket was pulled over them. Sam was on the floor, holding a can of pop away from Winnie as she gave him the death glare and Lou was lounging in the armchair next to the couch as Wordy and Jules manned the television.

This, obviously, didn’t solve anything but Spike—for a few precious hours—just let himself float in the sensation of being surrounded by his family. Greg and Ed’s tight grasps accompanied with the warm, careless touches by his friends was enough to keep his mind from screaming at him too loudly, and that was a gift far too precious.

The movie started to roll, and Spike snuggled into both his lovers and his blanket, as Sam lunged off the ground to go turn off the lights and Lou helped close the blinds.

_What if you fail again—?_

**They’ll still love me.**


End file.
